Silent Victim Read online

  Working a comb through my hair, I slipped on a pair of old jeans, wrapping a chunky knitted cardigan around me. I had barely eaten today and my stomach grumbled at the deprivation. I welcomed the discomfort. It made me feel grounded, alive.

  Heat pumped from our Aga in the kitchen and I grudgingly sipped my tea, imagining the sugar-laden liquid infiltrating my system. Full-fat cow’s milk and at least three spoonfuls of sugar, judging by the taste. I wanted to pull a face but Alex was watching me closely, his expression wrinkled with concern. For once it was justified. My old habits were rearing their head and I felt helpless to stop them.

  ‘I think I know what’s wrong with you,’ he said, his fingers tracing the deep grooves of our thick oak kitchen table.

  My heart skipped a beat. Had he followed me? Had I been talking in my sleep? Another emotion rose up inside me. Relief. I had carried this burden for such a long time. Perhaps Alex would be able to help. The fact that he was still sitting here with me spoke volumes. Maybe I should have trusted him with the truth all along.

  ‘It’s your mother, isn’t it? You’re worried that if we move she won’t be able to find you.’ He reached across the table, his fingers touching mine. His wedding ring glinted beneath the last rays of dying sun flooding through our kitchen window. I felt my bottom lip tremble. Tears welled in my eyes as he spoke, and he gave my hand a squeeze, the warmth of his flesh providing fleeting comfort.

  ‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘we could hire a private detective to try to find her. There’s Jamie to consider too. He has another grandma. Wouldn’t it be nice if he could get to know her?’

  My lips parted as I exhaled a sharp breath of disbelief. It was the last thing I had expected him to say. The realisation that I was alone with my problems hit me all over again. Alone to deal with the consequences of what I had done. Disappointment fuelled my bitterness. Weren’t we in enough of a mess, without bringing my mother into the mix as well? I took a deep breath as I tried to explain. ‘I was devastated after Mum left. Sure, she wasn’t perfect. She was temperamental and moody, and when she drank, she took her anger out on me. I still loved her though.’ I lowered my head as two fat tears rolled down my face and plopped on to my cardigan. Withdrawing my hand, I dabbed my eyes with a tissue. ‘But I don’t want to see her again. I couldn’t bear the pain of her walking out a second time. I won’t do that to Jamie.’

  ‘I can’t begin to imagine what that must have been like,’ Alex said. As he spoke, I could see my own hurt reflected in his eyes. They were dark, like mine, but open and honest. How could I ever tell him about Luke, knowing how easily he felt my pain?

  Rain tapped on the window like tiny frozen arrows, the light from the sun now withdrawn. I stood up and switched on the lamp. I wanted to go to Jamie. I needed to cuddle him, to inhale his little-boy smell. But Alex was looking as lost as any child and I felt a sudden rush of love.

  Standing behind him, I squeezed his shoulder. ‘I know you’re trying fix things, and that’s what I love about you. But Jamie has a lovely grandmother already. Let’s just leave it at that, eh?’

  The mention of his mother brought a brief smile to Alex’s face. ‘Mum can’t wait for us to move. But I don’t want to bring our problems with us. If it’s not Isobel holding you back, then what is it?’

  Silence fell, ominous and awful as I wrestled with my thoughts. This was my opportunity. I had to tell him now or not at all. I felt my throat tighten as I shrugged a response. ‘Nothing. I just wanted to say goodbye to the land. It’s been a while since I rode the quad bike and I was a bit out of practice. I won’t be doing it again.’ Despite my reassuring words, I could feel a layer of dread building up inside me. How much longer could I keep this all in?

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Alex said, looking up at me as he touched my hand.

  I wasn’t.

  ‘Yes,’ I murmured, forcing the corners of my mouth into a tight smile. ‘Are you going to show me these houses?’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  EMMA

  2017

  As I crept through the hall, I listened for the slightest sounds. Creaking through the rafters, the rising wind made itself known, rattling our wooden front door. I wondered what it would be like to live in the new house that my husband had shown me. The weather would definitely be more forgiving. Our current home was often battered by the rising storms, standing desolate on the landscape. Tightening my dressing gown, I padded into our kitchen and turned on the lamp. It was more intimate than the accusing glare of the light bulb overhead. Just a slice, I told myself, knowing deep down that it was my compulsion that drove me, rather than the need for cake.

  My eating disorder was my constant companion, surfacing in times of stress. A chubby child, I was berated by my mother, which in turn led me to find comfort in food. Now I gained control via the starving–bingeing–purging cycle whenever stress re-emerged. It was difficult to label what I carried inside me. Bulimia seemed too small a word to cover it.

  I glided soundlessly to the fridge and opened the door. I had tried hard to fight the temptation as I starved myself that day. I had told myself that the pain of an empty stomach was good. It made me feel in control. But now the inviting glow of the open refrigerator was drawing me in, my eyes roaming the food I had bought earlier that day. Starchy cakes, sugary soft drinks and, stashed in the vegetable compartment, bars of chocolate, all ready for my midnight feast. No matter what happened today, I knew they would be waiting for me when I got home. ‘Just one slice,’ I whispered to myself, my mouth watering at the sight of the fresh cream cake. As if saying it aloud would make any difference. I was not in control any more. After starving myself, it was inevitable that a binge would follow. There was no point in trying to fight it. Closing the fridge with my elbow, I rested the large Black Forest gateau on the kitchen counter. My eyes widened, excitement growing at the thought of the sticky substance that was about to line my throat. I didn’t need a plate. There was no need for such pleasantries now. Taking a knife from the drawer, I cut myself a generous slab. The first mouthful was bliss. I closed my eyes as I succumbed to the delicious cherry sauce and cream melting in my mouth. I swallowed it back, quickly needing more. Texture was important for when it made its second showing. Dense sponge always made a satisfying thud as it hit the toilet bowl. I licked my fingers, my gaze on the cake. I barely paused for breath as I cut a larger wedge. Moaning in satisfaction, I turned the second slice over in my mouth. By the third slice, I didn’t bother with the knife, gorging with my fingers until it was all gone. I needed more. The McDonald’s Alex had brought home, the chocolate bars, I kept going until I’d polished off the lot. I couldn’t have stopped even if I’d wanted to. I washed it all down with a fizzy drink, belching to make room in my expanding stomach. At last, when it was all gone, I folded up the empty containers ready for the recycling bin. But my movements were sluggish and painful. I leaned across the counter, my head hung low. The skin around my stomach felt like a tight leather ball, over-inflated and ready to pop. A voice screamed in my head. What have you done, you disgusting pig? Look at the state of you, how can your husband bear to sleep in the same bed? I lurched to the toilet, ready for my next move. It would be painful because I had not done it in some time and no longer had the automatic reflex action, which meant I would have to shove my fingers down my throat. I knew how pathetic I must have looked but, strangely, I took comfort in the presence of my old friend. Bulimia felt like something I could rely on even in the toughest of times.

  I did not hear Alex come into the kitchen and I certainly didn’t hear him standing outside the toilet door. After cleaning up the kitchen counter, I had chosen to use the bathroom next to the utility room at the back as it was the furthest away from our bedroom. It was only when I had flushed the toilet for the third time that I heard him shuffle outside the door. My heart plummeted. Despite my old trick of leaving the sink taps running, he would have heard me throw up. Once, twice, three times: I had kept going until e
very crumb of food had been expelled.

  ‘Emma?’ he whispered, tapping his nails on the door.

  I wiped the dribble trailing down my chin. ‘What?’ My voice was scratchy and brittle as I clung on to the toilet bowl, my hair hanging limply around my face. The familiar emotions of self-loathing and disgust returned. I felt exhausted, as if I had been through nine rounds in the boxing ring.

  ‘Sweetheart, can you come out? I need to talk to you.’ Alex spoke softly, his words gentle and reassuring.

  ‘I’m on the loo. I’ll be out in a second.’ Guilt swept over me as I checked my watch. It was 1 a.m. We both had the next day off, but he must have been tired from work. What was he doing behind that door? Rolling his eyes? Wishing he’d never met me? Nobody asked him to follow me around. But the thought was fleeting. He monitored me because he cared. Now I needed to placate him, find a plausible excuse for my nocturnal behaviour. Would he believe me if I told him I was feeling ill? I doubted it. I had been lying about my illness since we met. It wasn’t that I was a stick insect. I fell in and out of bouts of starvation and binged in between. Months could pass before suspicion was aroused. But Alex was wise to my ways. He knew the trigger points. I opened our bathroom window to dissolve the acrid smell of undigested food. It flew back on its hinges as the full force of the growing storm took hold. I sucked in a breath, relieved to see the glass remain intact. As I brushed my teeth, I welcomed the biting chill, avoiding my reflection in the bathroom cabinet mirror. Another wave of shame overtook me. Look at yourself, you little pig. My eyes flicked up and I saw my hair bunched in my mother’s fist as she forced me to stare at my reflection. My eleven-year-old face stared back at me, tear-streaked and puffy as she squeezed my plump cheeks with her spare hand. Chocolate stained my mouth: evidence of my sinful act. Her breath stinking of spirits, Mother’s slurred voice rebounded against the walls, her fingers squeezing harder as she called me a greedy pig. She had been right. Pink faced and sweating, I appeared just that.

  Dropping my toothbrush in the sink, I recoiled from the memory. I rubbed my cheeks, still feeling the haunting imprint of her fingers on my skin. But as I glanced back up, I saw another image, a reflection from outside. Luke, bathed in moonlight as he looked through our bathroom window, his face as gaunt and pale as when I buried him. I wanted to scream but the sound locked in my throat, and I felt like I was going to choke. I was paralysed with fear. Suddenly my breath returned. ‘No!’ I yelled, spinning around to the open window. My heart beat wildly as I turned to face him, the corpse of the man I had killed. I blinked to clear my vision, standing rooted to the spot. There was nothing there. Nothing but the light of the moon shining and the howl of the wind filtering through rain-whipped trees. I jumped as Alex rapped on the door, his voice more insistent this time.

  ‘Emma, are you OK? Open up.’

  ‘I’m coming,’ I said firmly, taking a deep breath and pulling the bathroom window shut. Cruel in their bidding, my thoughts were quick to respond. There’s nobody there, you stupid fat cow. It tailed off into laughter that I had heard far too many times before. Hands shaking, I fumbled with the door handle. I had to do something. I couldn’t go on like this. It was time to tell my husband the truth.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  LUKE

  2002

  She stood at the doorway, cautiously waiting for my acknowledgement. I kept my gaze on my desk as I pretended not to see her. Let her wait a few more seconds, show her who was in charge. The bell to signal the end of the school day had long since rung, and my after-school session with Emma had been approved by the head. She had noticed the positive change in Emma and kept a watchful eye on us both, but I had used the guise of extra tuition in order to gain her approval for our time alone.

  Emma had looked hurt when I’d sent her away at lunchtime. I could not afford to have any suspicion cast.

  With her shirt tails hanging out and her shoelaces undone, her appearance would have earned her a telling off from the head. But to me, she looked positively delicious. Her long dark hair was worn in a loose bun on top of her head, curly spirals falling loose at the side of her face. How someone could look both sultry and innocent at the same time was beyond me. I watched entranced as she played with the tips of her hair, sliding them through her parted lips. It was an odd habit sure to gain my attention. ‘Come in,’ I said, a ghost of a smile on my lips.

  Closing the door behind her, she took a seat at a front-row desk, following my instructions to take out her latest work, as I took a seat beside her. It was all for show; art was the last thing on my mind. I kept up the pretence for a while, talking about the movement and flow of her latest piece. I had brought my class an unusual challenge: a finch that jumped from perch to perch in his cage. The task was to draw it while in mid-movement, and Emma had not done a bad job of capturing a likeness of the energetic bird. But she seemed to sense that she had not been summoned here for extra lessons. How could she not? The attraction between us was undeniable; I was slowly winning her round. I took a fresh sheet of paper and placed my palm over her hand, guiding the charcoal pencil over the page. I heard her breath quicken from the warmth of my touch.

  ‘Sir?’ she said, when I drew my hand away. ‘Why did you send me away at lunchtime? Have I done something wrong?’ She turned her dark liquid eyes upon me, and I was painfully aware of her leg touching mine.

  I glanced up at the closed door, ensuring we were alone. ‘No, of course not,’ I said, smiling. ‘It’s just that I don’t want people getting the wrong idea. People are beginning to notice how much time we’re spending together. I am your teacher, after all.’ In truth, the only person who had passed comment was her father. He may have expressed gratitude, but I had to remain on my guard.

  ‘But we’ve not done anything wrong,’ she said, heat rising from her collarbones to her cheeks. ‘Talking to you, it’s really helped. I’ve been eating better, looking after myself more. Where’s the harm in that?’

  I risked another glance at the door before resting my hand on her back. For a few blissful seconds I left it there, teasingly pausing over the outline of her bra strap. She smelled like a punnet of fresh peaches on a warm summer’s day. I was intoxicated by her presence and the promise of what was to come. Rising from my chair, I allowed my knuckles to graze her cheekbone, unable to resist the temptation of touching her one more time.

  ‘I value our friendship too,’ I said. ‘But we have to be careful. Not everyone would understand. I need your discretion if we’re to spend time together.’

  I watched as the angst visibly lifted from her face, forming into an expression of hope. She nodded. ‘I won’t say a word to anyone, I promise.’

  ‘I thought you’d say that,’ I said, walking to my desk drawer. ‘Which is why I’ve bought you a phone. It’s a pay as you go, nothing fancy. We can text each other whenever you want,’ I licked the dryness from my lips. My heart thumped hard at the implications of my words. Steady. Take your time, I reminded myself, urging caution at every corner. ‘I’d like you to put your name down to borrow the class camera for a week too. You know, for art projects, homework, things like that.’ I quickly followed up. ‘I’ll book the darkroom, develop the photos myself.’

  I handed her the phone, watching as she quickly stowed it away in her bag. ‘Be careful,’ I said. ‘Don’t show it to anyone, not even your dad. Don’t text names. I’ll know who you are. If you get caught with it then say it belongs to one of your friends.’

  Emma nodded. ‘I’ll delete any texts that I send.’

  I leaned against my desk and crossed my ankles. ‘I was thinking, we should keep our meet-ups outside of the classroom. There’s nothing wrong with bumping into each other if we’re out for a walk, is there?’

  ‘I hang out in Castle Park at the weekends around two. Sometimes I bring a picnic,’ Emma said, packing away her pictures before swinging her schoolbag over her shoulder. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you then?’

  I delivered a curt nod, befor
e walking to the door and showing her out. She’d had enough encouragement for one day. The art of seduction was as much about the lead-up as the execution.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  EMMA

  2002

  My heart throbbed a warm beat as I lay on my bed, trying to make sense of the day. He’s just being nice, I chastised myself, wishing my pulse would slow the heck down. My emotions seemed too big, too overwhelming, yet the prospect of having more than a platonic friendship with my teacher frightened me silly.

  I licked my lips, my mouth dry. Thoughts of Mr Priestwood crept further into my consciousness, and I blushed as I imagined him pressing his lips on to mine. In the background, Dad’s television blared from the living room, and I wished I could mute the sound.

  I took a slow, calming breath, telling myself not to become carried away. Just having someone to open up to about my problems had really lightened my load. But lately, silly daydreams were stealing my focus. I imagined us getting married, me taking his name. Emma Priestwood. Mrs Priestwood. Mrs E. Priestwood. I wrote it over and over, improving the curve and flow of the words. I thought of our children, whom I would call Daisy and Teddy, and our home in the country, complete with a picket fence.

  I sighed, running my fingers through my hair. It was a silly daydream. I wasn’t a child any more, and Mr Priestwood was no schoolboy. My stomach tied up in knots as I imagined us together. Men like him weren’t content with holding hands and a peck on the cheek. He’d want a real kiss, with tongues and everything, perhaps even more. I pressed my palms against my cheeks to stem the rising heat. How my classmates would laugh if they knew of my naivety. Marsha Beckett had had sex with two boys by now, and I was pretty sure I was the only girl in class not to have had a proper kiss. That’s if you didn’t count the fumble with Samuel Clarke at the back of the bike shed last year, when he tried to suck off my face. It had felt like a slug attaching itself to my mouth, all wet and gross, and I had pushed him away. But something told me that Mr Priestwood wouldn’t be like that. He was a man. He would know exactly what to do.